The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  As the man ultimately responsible for its training, success or defeat of the Third Legion that night would be as much Valko’s as it was Corvinus’. The First Centurion turned, looking back down the column of soldiers marching behind, his heart raced with anticipation. They would not disappoint.

  ***

  In strict silence, the Third Legion gathered on the jagged foothills of the Gaur Mons under the shadow of the mountain’s western slopes. All the way up they could see the aftermath of the day’s battle. Arrows and spears littered the ground whilst the bodies of fallen enemies and their brothers from the Fourth Legion lay in the snow; a bloody trail up the slopes. It truly was a mountain of gore.

  The worst sight still was the bodies of the wounded. Left behind in the retreat, their armoured corpses lay frozen in a snapshot of their final moments of life. Glazed eyes stared with unblinking agony as they crawled, arms outstretched, in the desperate motion of clawing their way back towards camp. None had succeeded. On any other battlefield they might have had a chance and it still would have been possible to hear their moans that night, but the Tumultan winter was ruthless. The snows had quickly ended the pleas of these poor, forgotten souls.

  The sight of the dead inspired anger in those passing and the Third Legion marched on with renewed focus.

  With stiffened resolve, Corvinus vowed it would not end that way again. He gazed up to the night sky. The snowfall was picking up and the mountain mists were thickening. Slowly, the stars were beginning to fade from sight behind the clouds. Ensure us victory, he prayed to Taranis, hoping the gods were still watching.

  Like a dark knife against the heavens, the Gaur Mons loomed above them, the faint glow of the Evastii campfires lighting the plateau above – their destination.

  ‘First Centurion Valko, Tribune Bantius, to me,’ Corvinus whispered. The two men huddled close. ‘Here is where we must split up. Bantius, you will take half the cohorts and continue the advance to the Evastii camp. Go slowly, half pace until you get close. Valko and I will take the other cohorts further up and come in around the camp to assault it from the northern side. We will require time to get into position.’

  Tribune Bantius nodded at the order, eager to have such an important role for his first field command.

  ‘Sir, is it not best to stay together?’ asked Valko, cautious to keep his voice down. ‘We are already outnumbered as is.’

  ‘No, even if we achieve the first blow the Evastii will recover, if we are one they will eventually consolidate and overpower us,’ said Corvinus. ‘For this to work we must spread utter chaos through their camp. Drive a wedge through their quarters as deep as you can, as fast as possible. The two spearheads will regroup in the centre with the objective of eliminating the Evastii king Ariogaisus. If we can sever his command and cast confusion through their ranks, the enemy will crumble.’

  The tribune and First Centurion nodded in understanding.

  ‘I cannot stress the importance of getting to the Evastii camp undiscovered. If they spot us on the plateau and raise the alarm we will be as good as dead,’ said Corvinus, gazing at the frozen corpses of the Fourth Legion all around.

  The three of them stood, looking one another in the eye they shared a serious but excited smile before going to carrying out their orders.

  ‘One more thing Tribune,’ whispered Corvinus. Bantius turned back to look at the young general. ‘Half a talent of gold says my cohorts and not yours claim Ariogaisus’ head.’

  ‘Prepare to lose that bet,’ the tribune smiled.

  The climb up the Gaur Mons lasted more than an hour before the two columns reached the plateau. Though they had yet to venture very far from each other, the mountain mist grew thicker the higher they went, hindering visibility so much that the two groups had quickly become lost to one another.

  Corvinus stood at the crest of the plateau, thankful to have flat ground beneath his boots. It had been a treacherous journey up the slopes. Hampered by loose rocks slick with ice, the climb was a small victory in itself for the men of the Third Legion. Clad in full armour and travelling at night, every step had required the utmost focus for fear of losing one’s footing and falling or worse, alerting the enemy. The exertion and concentration required for such an ordeal had been both physically and mentally tiring. All that was forgotten though once the legionaries stepped onto the plateau and realised what they had achieved.

  Here are some of the best men in Arcem, Corvinus thought, his heart filled with pride. They had made it despite the difficulties, completely undetected. Victory was in reach – it was written on all their faces, Corvinus could see it clearly because he felt it too.

  The young general smiled, his breath fogging in the cold air. Across the plateau the dim lights of the enemy camp could be seen in the distance. There the true test awaited them.

  ***

  Tribune Bantius looked over his fur draped shoulder into the thick mountain mists. Somewhere to the left of Bantius’ position, Corvinus and his men would be approaching the upper flank of the enemy camp, although there was no sign of them.

  All around him, cohorts were forming up into battle lines ahead of the tribune. They were almost upon the Evastii camp and from here on the legionaries were advancing with swords drawn and ready.

  Of course, Bantius craved this opportunity, but once he had watched the young general and his men disappear into the mountain fog, the responsibility of it all dawned on him. It was a simple enough plan he knew, but Bantius could not shake the concern of what would happen if he attacked and Corvinus was not in position. If the northern assault was delayed, even by a dozen minutes, he knew he may not live through the night.

  Bantius shivered at the thought, hating himself for his doubts. He was better than this, he told himself. He was a noble son of House Furii, though not as old as the Tarquins perhaps, it was a respected and honourable name. He would prevail.

  Had Corvinus been delayed or met resistance, Bantius would know. The only thing he could do was continue as planned.

  ‘Tribune, sir,’ a voice whispered, instantly rallying his thoughts. Bantius looked around at the ranks of his cohorts. A centurion stood before him. ‘Sir the scouts have reported the barricades of the Evastii camp in sight but we have a problem. They say the enemy sentries are out in force.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Bantius.

  The centurion led the way. They passed through ranks of legionaries all waiting for the call to advance and several dozen yards ahead of them to where the scouts were.

  The centurion slowed in his step and Bantius did the same, cautious to make as little noise as possible this close to the enemy.

  They crouched down in the snow beside the scouts, eyes ahead. Searching for any sign of danger, their hands were never too far from the pommels of their sheathed gladii.

  Up ahead through the haze, Bantius could barely make out the shapes of several tribesmen. Everyone stayed still, not wanting to risk venturing any closer to the enemy, for there were a great many of them. Far too many to be a regular night’s watch, thought Bantius, there must be dozens. Are they on alert? Do they know the legions are here? The tribune quickly dismissed the notion. If they had been exposed, they would not still be breathing.

  What could they possibly be doing? Bantius thought, staring at the vague silhouettes. Though his eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, it was impossible to be certain at this distance. They were awfully quiet and seemed to be just standing there, like scarecrows.

  ‘You there,’ Bantius whispered to the closest scout, ‘get closer and tell me how many legs those sentries have, one or two?’

  ‘Excuse me sir?’

  ‘Just go,’ Bantius ordered, straining to keep the command at a whisper.

  The tribune shook his head, already knowing the scout would confirm his awful suspicion. He watched the man slowly crawl towards the enemy figures, flat on his stomach he moved stealthily across the snow several yards before quickly scurrying back.

  ‘T
ribune it is as you say, only one,’ the scout whispered, ‘I do not understand.’

  Bantius stood up straight, no longer cautious of the enemy.

  ‘That is because you are a fool,’ he said. ‘I should have you flogged for this. Centurion, your scouts are incapable of distinguishing a patrol of tribesmen from their war trophies. They have halted our advance for nothing and have risked the timing and coordination of the entire assault. I expect you to dispense the proper punishment when this is over.’

  ‘Yes Tribune, apologies sir,’ said the centurion, glaring at his scouts, ‘I will see to it personally.’

  ‘Now signal the cohorts to continue the advance,’ said Bantius, leading the way. ‘We have ground to cover.’

  Bantius walked forward and saw his suspicions confirmed. The shapes they had seen in the mist had not been the Evastii. They were Fourth Legion – or what was left of them. Hanging from stakes were the bloody remains of those unfortunate souls captured by the enemy that day. Crucified, flayed and often headless, they were a bloody warning for all those approaching. Barbarians, Bantius cursed as he passed through the rows of grizzly trophies and war banners. Arcem would reap terrible vengeance upon these Evastii bastards.

  The tribune could see the legionaries advance with the same loathing. They drew their swords, eyes full of hate waiting to be unleashed.

  The barricades of the Evastii camp were right in front of them now.

  Bantius could see the tents of the enemy and smell their feral stench. They slept completely unaware of the legions on their doorstep. They would be punished.

  The tribune felt a surge of adrenalin energise his body as he watched the cohorts form up for war around him. He took one last look into the mountain fog to the north in search of Corvinus and his men. There was no turning back now. He could only hope the general’s cohorts were also in position.

  ‘Finally, time to put them to steel,’ Bantius whispered as he drew his gladius from its scabbard, already envisioning the glory and promotions to come.

  VI

  ‘Victory loves prudence.’

  Arcemite Proverb

  ‘Tell me little one, how many lives did you end this day?’ said a familiar voice over the banter. Triumphant in the first major clash of the campaign, the day’s victory had brought many clan leaders to their king’s table for a celebratory feast that extended long into the night.

  Voratrix turned his attention from his king and looked for the source of the call, already knowing the warlord responsible. Taurson. Down near the end of the table a brutish figure smiled behind his unkempt beard. The man’s face was a crooked mess of battle scars and general ugliness. He sat, hunched in his chair due to his enormous size and the bulk of his bronze armour. His eyes stared at Voratrix, eager for his prey to take the bait.

  Voratrix raised his wine goblet for a drink, deliberately taking his time before answering. He knew the man’s game. The two had been playing it for almost a year now, ever since Voratrix had become the favoured right hand of their king.

  ‘Ended by my hand or those of my clan?’ asked Voratrix, disinterested.

  ‘Your own blade,’ said Taurson.

  ‘Thirteen men of Arcem now lie cold because of me,’ said Voratrix at last, knowing what would come next. It would not have mattered what number he had said.

  Taurson slammed his oversized fist onto the table, rattling the empty plates from their feast.

  ‘Ha! Fourteen,’ Taurson laughed, his voice booming throughout the tent like thunder. ‘Felled beneath my hammer, they broke like twigs.’

  ‘I heard you let your only worthy opponent today get away. A centurion wasn’t it? No wait, their First Centurion, pity about that,’ said Voratrix, shaking his head. ‘I was not so soft as to let any escape my blade.’

  ‘The man set a dozen of his legionaries on me so that he may flee,’ sniffed Taurson. ‘These sons of Arcem lack the dignity to fight man to man. Had he not broken the honour of our duel his skull would now be another trophy on my banner.’

  Voratrix let a smile play across his features as Taurson snatched another jug from the table. The wine was local; compliments of a small Arcemite village they had ravaged two days before.

  Voratrix watched Taurson drink deeply, straight from the jug, silently hoping it would help loosen his rival’s tongue along with what little wits the man had.

  ‘So, my king,’ said Taurson, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. ‘When shall we go down and finish these pathetic Arcemite legions? I grow weary of this waiting.’

  All table conversation suddenly became very quiet. It was the question on everyone’s mind. Though the other chiefs had discussed the next course of action many times that night, no one had been brave or foolish enough to question the king directly.

  Ariogaisus, The Old Wolf, King of the Evastii, looked up. His grey hair hung in long plaits over the furs covering his elaborate gold and silver armour and despite his age, the king still struck an impressive figure of authority with a fearful reputation. His eyes, the colour of glacial ice, stared down the table at Taurson.

  ‘We will not,’ he said. ‘Arcem still has many more armies to commit to the field. I will not abandon our advantage here to chase down a single legion. We shall winter here and throw back any force sent against us. Then we shall take Arvum Superior before the harvests come, followed by the rest of Arcem soon after.’

  Upon hearing this plan Voratrix knew that the toasts and homage paid to his king at the feast that night would soon grow stale. Spending the winter months freezing on the mountain would not sit well with the great army. They would grow bored, their strength blunted whilst the enemy would have time to rally. True, the enemy had been effectively repulsed en masse earlier that day, but they had not been hunted down and slaughtered in their retreat. Voratrix knew that was the only way to beat the legions. Arcem would keep fielding more and more men until it was destroyed. They were always hard fighters, a people too proud to ever surrender. Just like the village prefect two days before, Arcemites would fall on their swords before ever being conquered again. Unlike much of Tumultus, Arcem’s vanity would only allow its defeat with the complete devastation of its peoples.

  Of course, he did not speak such thoughts. Voratrix had not become warlord by his martial skill alone.

  He had seen firsthand the punishment of men who openly rebuked their king. Chieftains or not, by sunrise the foolish bastards would be wandering the underworld of Khronus as blind mutes.

  ‘But we have them routed,’ said the intoxicated Taurson, not realising his own peril, ‘we should-’

  ‘What should we do?’ said Ariogaisus. ‘Do you suppose you know better than your king? Is that it?!’

  Two of the king’s personal guard appeared behind the troublesome war chief. Clad in full plate armour of dark iron and draped in the pelts of wild predators, they reached for their swords.

  ‘Of course not my king,’ said Taurson quickly sobering. ‘I live only to serve your will and bring death upon your enemies.’

  ‘Then do not ever think to question me again, or else I will have you cut down where you stand,’ said Ariogaisus, waving the guards back to the shadows of the tent.

  The king is getting soft in his old age, thought Voratrix, watching the exchange. Never would he have been so forgiving during his bloody youth. The great king had led the Evastii for almost twenty years – an unmatched reign. But wolves are not meant to grow old. They fight and die at the hands of younger wolves. It was the Evastii way – where sons inherited their place in the tribe by spilling the blood of their fathers. That way a man might leave this world knowing his name would be carried on by someone truly worthy of it and the tribe would grow stronger. It had always been that way. Voratrix could clearly remember the pride he had seen buried in his father’s eyes right before he had delivered the killing blow and succeeded him as warlord.

  He looked to his king. Perhaps it is time for fresh blood to rule the Evastii, Voratrix thought. Not y
et, he told himself, Ariogaisus still commanded the fealty of many warlords, most of whom had gathered in his name for this winter campaign. He could not declare a challenge against the man just yet. Soon though, Voratrix smiled, soon.

  Coming to terms with his disfavour, Taurson stood up from the table. ‘With your leave my king,’ he said, bowing.

  Watching the man go, Voratrix wondered if the chieftain would live to see the next morning, should the king later decide he had been insulted.

  In the end Voratrix did not care. He was strained from the day’s battle and all he wanted at that moment was a warm bed for the night. He had been social enough, he decided, it was time to leave. The victory feast was over and he had no intention to stay and make the mistake of getting drunk.

  Voratrix stood, raising his goblet. The other remaining warlords did the same.

  ‘My king,’ he nodded to Ariogaisus, before finishing the drink, ‘may mighty Khronus speak a thousand praises upon your name.’ The words were nought but ashes in his mouth, a false service to a premature victory.

  Ariogaisus returned the gesture, letting Voratrix leave on better terms than Taurson before him.

  As he walked towards the doorway, Voratrix threw his empty wine goblet to a nearby thrall. The servant caught it neatly and bowed quietly.

  Approaching the doorway, the armoured form of one of the king’s guard stood to block his path. Standing a full head above him, the man was a veteran of the tribe.

  Voratrix did not slow in his pace as he came before this champion of death. In his journeys across the haunted wastelands of the north as warlord, he had fought with countless enemies and seen many horrors that would have broken lesser men. As a means of survival he had long since lost any capacity to be intimidated.